


A.D. 1504

by elektra121



Category: German Renaissance RPF
Genre: Homosexual Humanists, M/M, Nuremberg, Pining, name dropping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 16:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17144885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elektra121/pseuds/elektra121
Summary: It started out as a nice, quiet evening at a bath house in Nuremberg - just two old friends and a young, pretty lad, but suddenly, the green eyed monster raises its ugly head.(For the reader not familiar with Nuremberg Renaissance folks, there is a dramatis personae in the end notes.)





	A.D. 1504

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liriaen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liriaen/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A.D. 1504](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17023680) by [elektra121](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elektra121/pseuds/elektra121). 



Willibald Pirckheimer slowly lowered his bull neck to the edge of the wooden tub, stretching out his bulky body with great satisfaction. One of the bathing maids had just poured hot water, the gofer had put new logs into the tiled stove, and the spiced hot wine made him feel fuzzy and warm inside. Now that's how winter is made endurable!

It was quite a sociable gathering in the Nuremberg bathhouse on this St. Thomas Eve, even though Steffen Baumgartner and Conrad Celtis were missing – the former having been invited to his brother's name day, and the latter having left for Bohemia. But the room was full of journeymen and servants blowing their annual salary that had been paid to them that day.

Given that it was fast-breaking, the landlord had served up meat in sufficient quantity and even hired some lute players, drummers, and whistlers to entertain willing dancers in the adjoining room. And nobody cared that the alderman Pirckheimer would take part in such merriments so soon after the death of his wife.

In the same tub, at the opposite end facing Willibald, sat his friend Albrecht. His curly chestnut hair, which he liked to keep at the same eccentric length as his beard, was carefully tied up in a linen cloth turban so it would not get wet. What was rather unusual for him though – and hardly in line with the general mood of the evening – was the frustrated look darkening his face. Willibald nudged him with his big toe.

“Ey! What’s eating you?”

Albrecht grumbled. “Have been to Barbari‘s today. The guy still doesn’t cough up his sketchbooks, no matter how much I’m begging. Knows exactly how I depend on those nude studies and their proportions. Ha! Barbari. A fitting name! Is this appropriate behavior between guild brothers?” Albrecht angrily twirled his beard, which Lorenz Behaim had made fun of so often.

“Couldn’t you, I don’t know, maybe poach his assistant? Who, of course, would have secretly copied those sketches beforehand?” Willibald winked.

But Albrecht did not laugh. “Oh, who knows. Might as well become true. Has a good eye, this boy, his painting’s aren’t bad at all. Hans Süß is his name. Could be another Hans for the workshop!“

At the sound of that name, a young man in striking doublet, fashionably tabbed and brightly verdigris, at one of the nearby tables turned to the two in the tub and temporarily forgot about the pork knuckle he had been eating. He wiped his mouth with his thumb and the back of his hand, expecting to be called over. But Albrecht waved him off.

The young man let his eyes linger on the two bathtub friends for a little longer until he finally focused his attention back on his food.

It was this gaze that had made Willibald take against Hans Baldung. Their relationship should have been one between a jovial patron and friend of the master on one side and a grateful, humble young craftsman on the other side. It was not that the boy had not given thanks or shown courtesy toward him – superficially, quite the opposite was true, and no one could have accused Hans of lacking manners. And yet… Willibald disapproved of the boy not lowering his gaze as quickly as his fellow assistants did and as would befit a young man of his standing. He would keep staring straight into his face whenever Willibald spoke to him, as if Hans himself was the wealthiest patrician of Padua, and he would watch from the corner of his eye like a suspicious cat whenever Willibald spoke to somebody else. Quite certainly, his friend Albrecht must have found this intriguing. After all, Master Dürer himself had never been one to quickly lower his eyes. Albrecht often praised the boy – not in his presence, of course, to prevent any bout of overconfidence –, but Willibald could not shake the impression that out of his three assistants, the master by far thought the most of this one. Hans Baldung might even inherit his workshop, provided Albrecht's marriage would remain childless, which was likely. Willibald could not quite put his finger on why that bothered him so much. Perhaps it was because “Green Hans” must have guessed the nature of the friendship between master and patron all too well thanks to his ever-lurking eyes. Willibald was sure of that, even though he could not see through Hans's smooth brow and low voice and work out his true motivations.

Notably, none of the other assistants had ever been invited to the bathhouse before. Sure, the idea of taking Albrecht's younger brother with them, tender little lad that he was, seemed about as absurd as asking Willibald's older sister, the abbess of St. Clara. But Hans Schäufelin would certainly have been interested. Such an invitation was meant to be a sign of recognition, and the way the green Hans held himself this time would decide whether or not there would be a second time. That much was clear to everybody involved. In a way, this evening was a special sort of apprentice exam. And from the bottom of his heart, Willibald hoped Hans Baldung would not pass. He could do well without this boy in their round.

Albrecht twirled his beard again, the way he always did when in deep thought. “No, in all earnest, I _need_ those proportions. Wolgemut's are not enough for me anymore. I think I shall journey to Italy again. Barbari must have gotten this stuff from somewhere!”

Willibald almost choked on the wine. “You want to…” he coughed out.

Albrecht waited patiently until Willibald had caught his breath enough to speak on.

“You want to go to Italy for some silly sketches?! You must be joking! What for? So far, no one has ever complained about false proportions in your paintings. On the contrary!” But as soon as he had said it, Willibald realized this was not a valid argument. Albrecht had never cared much for the opinions of people who had no clue about art. It was his own expectations he wanted to live up to – this was one of the reasons why they were friends.

Albrecht remained calm. “No, not a joke. I‘m serious. And it's not just about those proportions…” He slid backwards, tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. “I‘ve gotten word from my agents. Those Italians are copying my prints and woodcuts – worse! – bartering them away together with other crap, claiming them to be mine! With my monogram on them, you understand? Sells better. And I know who’s doing this. I want to go to Venice and sue those felons. My decision has been made.“

Willibald knew the uneasy, threatening feeling rising up in him. It felt like this whenever he learned about a new plague wave approaching, when all his desperate attempts to ward off disaster would not yield the desired result. But at least he knew how to laugh in the face of such disaster, how to keep his calm appearance while still attempting to prevent any fatality. After all, he had successfully commanded troops in war.

“Nonsense. Who will run the workshop? Train your Hanses? Finish the altar for the Elector of Saxony? And how dangerous such a long journey would be! You are not a wandering journeyman anymore, like ten years ago. Get this out of your head – and let your agents handle nasty details. That's what they're getting paid for!” Willibald wondered whether he should also point out the obvious financial arguments against such a trip but eventually considered it an unnecessary blow below the belt.

“Already thought all of it through. My journeymen are not students, as you know. I do not train apprentices. I give young artists the opportunity to collaborate and learn. Schäufelein is the eldest – he has finished the ‘Flight to Egypt’ that he had been working on. He is ready. He can paint the altar. The big pieces are finished anyway, and the rest is craftwork he can certainly master. Agnes will be in charge of the workshop. She is the one who does most of the administrative work anyway. She will continue to sell and go to fairs, as usual. Does not need me for that. If I don‘t write her any letters, she probably won‘t even notice I'm gone. And if she will, it should make her happier than she usually is. And my little brother will stay at our mother’s again. May Endres take care of him.“

Willibald had not failed to notice Hans Baldung missing in Albrecht’s list – and the reason was instantly clear to him, hitting him harder than the thought of maybe losing Albrecht on his journey, of him being buried dishonorably in some godforsaken ditch in the Alps or – worse – of him staying in Italy forever! In that country full of white palaces, elegant people, and beautiful paintings! The Venetians were probably not so stupid as to let someone like Albrecht Dürer go easily – after all, he was already so popular there that they were copying his woodcuts in masses. Of course, in exchange for him staying, they would overlook such little vices as living with a man, especially when such man was young and beautiful and blessed with a good taste in fashion. Perhaps it was not too late to invest in Spanish green before the color would be discovered by Venetian peacocks next year.

But Willibald did not want to give up without fight. “Why not take your younger brother with you? He's old enough to see the world now. You could introduce him to Italian art and he could learn the language, socialize. A nice starting point for his craft.”

Albrecht snorted. “As if our mother would ever let him go! Had already thought of it, but believe me, that‘s hopeless.” He shook his head regretfully. “She's scared the sky will fall down on him! No, I rather thought…” – he nodded in the direction of the young man at the table and lowered his voice – “about this green boy there. Not so green at all when it comes to the arts. Has ideas like I've never seen them! And he masters the craft as well. I hit a lucky strike with him. And he with me, too, of course.“ Albrecht grinned. “He deserves to come around a bit.“ He winked happily.

Willibald watched Hans in an animated conversation with one of his neighbors. He held himself straight and listened politely without interrupting. When he laughed, he shook his dark, accurately cut hair. In all earnest, Albrecht could not be blamed for being taken by him. As for that, Willibald knew himself. What man could withstand such brimming youth and self-confident charm, in addition to such a witty mind and pretty face? It had always been one of his greatest weaknesses not to be able to resist all of this, as his sister often and gladly reprimanded him – and she could have knowledge of only the smallest part of his conquests. And why be so petty-minded as to draw the line between man and woman when the learned Greeks and Romans had not done so either? Albrecht, in any case, had always been open to new things.

When considered from a rational point of view, Hans Baldung was actually a great choice for a lover. Apart from his indisputable physical advantages, as a journeyman who wanted to learn (and most likely also benefit from the name Dürer), he was bound to Albrecht in no small measure – which made it unlikely he would simply rob him somewhere on the way to Italy and make a run for it or later knock out financial profit from his knowledge of Albrecht’s certain preferences. As Willibald was reluctant to admit, both were not so unlike in their way of working, in their notion of art, in their nature. There were parts of Albrecht's imagination that Willibald – even with all his devotion to art – could not follow, that perhaps no one could ever follow – except Hans. And certainly, there was hardly a better place for such cooperation than the South. Was not this the actual reason for the trip? To enjoy a way of life in Venice that simply would not be possible in Nuremberg despite the plethora of advantages offered to respected citizens there? It was completely reasonable! But to accompany Albrecht for all that, Willibald would have preferred some random Italian boy he would never get to see. Really, anyone. Just not Hans Baldung, the Green!

But Albrecht had probably not yet announced his plans to Hans nor was it clear how attractive such an offer would be to him. Would he be interested (or ambitious) enough to get on board? Would he decline with horror or disgust? Would he believe the whole thing to be strange, a tough joke?

Willibald decided to put Hans to the test. Was not this evening intended to be a journeyman's exam anyway? He leaned toward Albrecht. “If you think this boy deserves a reward, we should treat him to one, on such an evening!”

With an overly friendly smile, Willibald then nodded to Hans. “Hey, lad!”

The one called slowly turned around. Not too slowly, so it would not be considered impolite, but leisurely enough to make clear that the form of address had displeased him.

“Come here!” Willibald waved him over.

Hans Baldung Grien rose and strolled lazily but obediently toward them. He stopped a step away from the tub. And although Hans had the decency to look straight only at his face, Willibald felt rather uncomfortably exposed. From this low angle, Hans seemed even slimmer and taller than he already was. Willibald sat up and pulled his knees to his chest. This at least slightly reduced the size gap.

“Let's say, tonight I feel like paying an aspiring young artist a 'special room,' where he is allowed to invite whomever his heart desires…” Willibald let his hand wander over all the people present. He was sure he could see how honest Hans's choice would be – whether he’d choose a woman for the right or wrong reasons (or even, by cold calculation, a man). And then he would know for sure how justified his fears were. He would not be fooled by the green boy.

Yet, at first the boy didn’t do anything, aside from frowning in suspicion. He seemed unsure whether the offer was serious. Looking for help, he turned his gaze to his master, who nodded encouragingly as if Willibald had merely inquired whether Hans would have liked to be gifted another beer.

“Now? Who receives the golden apple? Of course, I cannot promise that the object of your desire will reciprocate the sentiment in equal measure. But speak frankly: In this room, whom would you choose, given your artistic expertise?” Willibald toasted to Hans. Joviality came naturally to him.

“I can choose anybody in here?” Hans looked very serious, almost saturnine. Maybe he still was not convinced.

“Yes,” Albrecht confirmed in a friendly tone. “A sensible artist should not be influenced by the opinion of others but trust his own judgment.” He, too, seemed interested in whom his journeyman would pick.

At last, Hans turned to the room and attentively scrutinized every person present, as if he saw them for the very first time or had to memorize them for a painting.

Willibald noticed – or so he thought – how Hans wetted his lips when gazing at the young craftsman he had talked to before. Or were his eyes already on the barmaid who had just poured him more beer? Maybe Albrecht was right, and Hans was no longer a green boy in artistic matters. At least he took plenty of time to make his decision.

Finally, Hans seemed to remember the two men awaiting his answer. He turned around. His eyes only briefly and carelessly strode over Willibald, then came to rest on his master. His lips morphed into a grin. “So, I really can choose anyone, right?”

Willibald froze on his seat in the tub. _Jesus and Mary, no! Virgin Mary, Saint Thomas, God in heaven – no! Not here! Not now!_ In this moment of sudden panic and realization, he would have sworn every oath that this Hans was a wicked sorcerer who had read every one of his thoughts. His pretty smooth face suddenly resembled a grinning devil's grimace.

But then Hans turned back around and pointed his innocent finger at one of the filles de joie. “That's who I want!” His face lit up with joy like that of a little boy finding sweets in his shoes on St. Nicholas' Day. No doubt, his enthusiasm was genuine.

Willibald sank back into the water with relief and resolved to make a thank-offering to the saints before the end of the year. Maybe he could pay for an orphan’s schooling or something along those lines. Or let Albrecht paint a Saint Thomas who was ashamed to have doubted his friend.

Hans went to fetch his favorite. Gone was his laziness and somberness. Like a noble gentleman, he offered his arm to the lady and led her over to the tub.

Willibald mustered the girl and assured her he would pay. “Our young friend here has earned a merry evening in the most pleasant company, and he has chosen you to be his Venus!”

The woman smiled mischievously, without any modesty. She was a good match for Hans with her seductive eyes and witchlike wavy red hair. The very open-hearted bodice of her bright yellow dress was lusciously filled, and her white fingers were already stroking Hans's hair. Willibald made a mental note to remember her for a possible next time.

Hans, on the other hand, continued to hold only her arm in a strangely boyish way. “Thank you a thousand times, Herr Pirckheimer!” He bowed down low like a good child but then turned to his master: “May I borrow your silver pen and some of the paper you always carry with you?”

Albrecht nodded, mildly puzzled.

“Thanks!” Hans hurried to the master’s coat and bag, both hanging on one of the hooks on the wall, and fetched the desired items. Then he no longer had eyes or thoughts for the men in the tub and instead disappeared with his ginger witch.

As he pulled her by her hand, they could have been Orpheus and Eurydice in a painting, in bright yellow and green. But just as was the case with the Greek hero, Hans’s true dispositions suddenly seemed questionable to Willibald. He just wanted to draw her?! What did that mean? Had Willibald’s test been useless? Had Hans seen through it all and tricked him?

Albrecht may have been asking himself similar questions, because he looked after both for an unusually long time and seemed to worry about something. He chewed on his beard. Finally he jumped up. “I… – excuse me for a moment!”

He quickly climbed out of the tub and pulled the turban from his head. Barely taking the time to dry himself, he hurried after his journeyman, the cloth Christ-like wrapped around his waist.

Willibald stayed behind in the tub.

A long time passed. Willibald had hot water poured into the tub twice and wine into his mug three times. The skin on his fingers became shriveled. One by one, most of the guests paid and left for home. The maids cleared the tables. In order to have something to distract himself with, he had one of the filles de joie massage his shoulders. But that was not enough to help him relax. His mind and heart were still suffering torment. What on earth were Albrecht and Hans doing with each other? His rich imagination created a long series of pictures – not all of them unpleasant in nature – that showed possible answers to this question. Why, why had he come up with the idea of creating such a test?! Why had he not foreseen how it would turn out? That's how Oedipus must have felt when he tried to escape his fate and thereby, had made it happen.

That unpleasant feeling, it had to be humility. As a patrician, naturally, he was not very used to it. Or was it grief? Willibald had not grieved too much when his wife had died half a year ago. But that was something else entirely. One got married because it was reasonable or opportune, or because the family told you so, or because you wanted children. Cenzi had been a pious, friendly person and a good wife as well as a devout Christian; really, there had been nothing to criticize about her. Nevertheless, his life without her was hardly any different from his life with her. He did not miss her. Given her exemplary way of life (and also the masses he had made sure would be sung for her), he could rest assured she would be in Paradise now. He did not have to worry about her. But – to lose his best friend? That was another thing. He would be terribly lonely without Albrecht. And neither their shrewd “gentlemen round” nor his valiant Humanist pen pals all around the known world nor any of his lady acquaintances nor any number of distracting evenings in the bathhouse would ever change the smallest bit about that. A man needed a friend, every now and then, some male consolation – and no one had ever understood him better, had ever been closer to him than Albrecht. Never before had Willibald been able to be _himself_ as much as he was with Albrecht. No one had he ever admired as much, not even the famous Erasmus of Rotterdam. And to lose Albrecht like that now hurt twice as hard, since he had never experienced what Hans seemed to be enjoying right now.

Well, when considered in the light of day, it was not that surprising. Artists were always a special kind, and it was only natural for a person to be attracted to someone who was like them. Apart from that, Willibald had to admit that he could hardly keep up with his rival in terms of physical beauty. He had never been overly vain, and so far, an emerald or ruby ring, a new dress or an exotic cloth as a gift had always sufficed to make up for this blemish with the womenfolk. Yet, artists who knew about beauty better than anybody else could hardly be impressed with jewelry (Hans, perhaps, with fashion, but that was not the point), and Willibald would have been deeply ashamed to even try to buy friendship with merchandise. He knew very well there were things one could buy and others one could not.

 _The humble one recognizes and accepts freely that there is something unattainable for him._ Strangely, his sister’s dictum rang in his ears. In his mind's eye, he saw her smiling knowingly down at him – and rather haughtily, in spite of her words – the way she always had when they were both children still and her Latin was better than his. He envied her again. Behind her convent walls and surrounded by people hiding their bodies in ugly black robes, she was certainly safe from such problems.

Finally, after maybe more than an hour, Albrecht returned, alone. He smiled and hummed and seemed completely at ease with himself and the world. As if nothing had happened, he got back into the tub, crossed his arms behind his head and sighed in satisfaction.

Willibald tried to memorize this picture as accurately as possible. How often would he get an opportunity to see Albrecht like this again? Or was this the last time?

“Well? How did he keep himself?” Willibald managed to make it sound cheerful, only politely interested, unmoved.

“Oh, very clever, very clever! I told you of his good ideas!” Albrecht grinned. “We have managed to measure and draw all sorts of her body proportions! Why hadn’t I thought of that before…?! Barbari can go to hell with his sketches! I shall make my own sketchbook now, and nature will be my model. Who knows, maybe one can even calculate some formulas from that? Then no artist ever would have any need for models again! I could write a book about it!” His face flushed with enthusiasm.

Willibald felt all the spirits of life starting to flow back through his veins, as if he had become drunk in an instant – or, better, as if in the midst of drunkenness he could suddenly think clearly again. Laughter broke out of him. “Did not the girl wonder what you were doing?”

Albrecht rocked his head back and forth. “Well, I believe that would come as a surprise for anyone. But she kept herself bravely. Has probably yielded to more peculiar wishes before. If she recognizes herself as the Holy Virgin in a painting, it surely will comfort her. By the way, Hans is staying with her a little bit longer. To make up for it!” He winked.

“And regarding the men’s studies, we’ve still got us!” Albrecht leaned forward and his eyes sparkled mischievously. “I can think of a male proportion I wouldn’t want to measure on anybody more gladly than on you! Say, do you still have enough money to pay for a second room tonight?”

For the briefest of moments, Willibald was at a loss for words. But then he smiled. “Oh, don’t worry. Even if I were dead broke, I wouldn’t hesitate to borrow however much money we need – for the sake of the arts! As you know, _ars sine scientia nihil est_.“

 _I must not forget to donate three scholarships in honor of Saint Thomas early on Monday_ , he thought. _And my sister shall let the Clares pray a thousand Ave Marias on my behalf._

THE END.

 

**Author's Note:**

> “Ars sine scientia nihil est.” – “Art without science is nothing.”
> 
> To the reader not familiar with Renaissance Nuremberg folks:  
> \- Willibald Pirckheimer: wealthy Nuremberg patrician, lawyer, author and humanist, best friend to Albrecht Dürer, well known for his library and for being a lady’s man (and there is historical document that supports the idea he might have been bicurious about Albrecht)  
> \- Steffen Baumgartner, Conrad Celtis, Lorenz Behaim: members of the Nuremberg humanist “gentlemen’s round”  
> \- Barbari: Jacopo de Barbari, Italian painter and printmaker, living in Nuremberg around 1500  
> \- the Hanses of the workshop: Coincidentially, all of Dürer’s assistants were named “Hans”: Hans Süß of Kulmbach, Hans Schäufelin, Hans Dürer (the little brother of Albrecht Dürer), Hans Baldung ‘the Green’  
> \- Hans Baldung ‘Grien’: also called “Greenhans” (by Dürer), likely because he had a taste for green clothing. Came from a wealthy Straßburg patrician family, most of his male family members had attended university. Today considered to be the most talented of all Dürer’s “students”. Known for all the fancy green clothing in his paintings and for a fascination with painting witches and not very modest scenes.  
> \- The abbess of St. Clara: Caritas Pirckheimer, the older sister of Willibald. One of the very rare female humanists (maybe the only one). Considered by Erasmus of Rotterdam the “most knowledgeable woman in all of Europe”. Had the very bad luck experiencing the Protestant Reformation as a loyal Catholic.  
> \- Endres: Endres Dürer, goldsmith, younger brother of Albrecht Dürer  
> \- Agnes: Albrecht Dürer’s wife and sales director 
> 
>    
> Thanks go to Fenway03 who helped a great deal with the translation.


End file.
